


The Last Romantic

by gremlinloquacious



Category: Vicar of Dibley
Genre: F/M, Gen, harry is adorkable, how Harry came to Dibley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:02:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gremlinloquacious/pseuds/gremlinloquacious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst most boys his age liked to pretend they were Obi Wan Kenobi or Han Solo- Harry preferred to imagine himself as Mr. Darcy. But then again, he had always been a little odd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He never did like Rochester. Or Heathcliff.  
Harry preferred Darcy, Thornton, Ferras, and even Pip.  
He was never the dark and brooding type. The Byronic antihero of his novels. He was Sir Percival, not King Arthur; whatever demons that always seemed to dwell beneath the surface of these greater men were not within Harry. He had no tragic childhood (excusing of course, the inevitable bullying that came with always having your nose in a book and your twin sister being your best friend), no long lost love, no tortured soul.  
Heathcliff – he just couldn't relate. Rochester – he seemed to take personal offense to the man locking his wife away; mad or not.  
Rosie always teased him. While other little boys his age were trying to decide whether they wanted to be a Jedi Master or a Sith Lord; he seemed to dream of being the White Knight, or the dashing prince in a fairy-story. Fighting dragons for his lady's favour. His mother and father rolled their eyes and assumed it was just a phase.

He was fond (overly perhaps) of the 'Grand Romantic Gesture'. Of rushed and desperate confessions of love, passion undying and promises. His first 'Grand Romantic Gesture' was aged 13, his first real crush on one of his sister's friends. It had been the usual passing of notes and a stolen kiss or two, until she had scoffed at a lovenote he'd given her that had quoted "Gone with the Wind". Telling him how stupid it sounded and why did he even read those books weren't they for women and why couldn't he just try and cop a feel like a normal lad. He'd cried on Rosie's shoulder for an hour or two as she patted his back. Oh Harry.

He loved too deeply and too quickly. Head over heels Harry, as his mother fondly called him. Never stopping to think if this girl would break his heart too, because she might be The One this time (she never was though, in the end). The Grand Romantic Gesture's got a little grander as he got older, as his library became bigger. His last great love living with him in his flat in London, he had given away his heart for what he thought was the last time, only to have her shatter it again when she found her Drummel and left him there.  
This time, Harry was adamant that things would change. Maybe he should consider moving away from the White Knight to a less wholesome character? Were the Grand Romantic Gesture's really what women wanted – his lovenotes, and cuttings from favourite novels, surprises and promises and kisses in the rain ("fucking hell Harry, now my hair is ruined!") – was his method too old fashioned and unrealistic? His life too shaped by the gentlemen in the books he read? His girlfriend's past had either loved or hated it but he had always seemed to attract women who (as he later discovered) never quite loved him back as fervently as he had loved them. So he tried for a little while, to become the boring accountant everyone expected of him.

And it came to him, in a flash of divine light one Thursday night a few years later - what he wanted. What he really truly wanted. To be loved with as much ferocity and joy as he loved, regardless of his making a tit of himself by shouting his adoration into a crowded street or trying to write a poem that would never quite be Shakespeare. He wanted the love-at-first-sight-punch-you-in-the-gut romance his 12 year old self had fawned over in the library, which his teenaged self had tried so hard to manufacture. He wasn't going to get it here, now, as this dull creature he'd become. He didn't need to change himself. But Harry did, however, need a change. London was a city of cynics. It was wearing him down, making him cold and hopeless.  
Harry phoned his sister up and she gave him her blessing.

He looked online at houses for sale, and settled in the end for a house in a village that seemed to be lifted directly from an Austin or Hardy novel.  
Dibley.  
Sounded quite nice, really.


	2. The Townie Bastard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had too much fun writing the first oneshot I had to continue.

He was trying to figure out where to put the kettle when there was a knock at the door.  
He blinked, standing for a moment as his brain connected the dots.  
Knock at door = visitor.  
He put the kettle down hastily upon a box of books and rushed to the front door; his first day in his new home and he had a visitor. Sure the bloke in the moving van had given him a funny look when he’d asked what the village was like and wished him luck as he’d left, but hell. This was more visitors then he’d ever had in London.

Harry had finally moved to Dibley. It was simple enough; he’d figured it all out. Work from home during the week and head back to London and visit the family at the weekends. Bother Rose and her husband. This would be his fresh start. His chance to escape the drab and dreary little life he’d been leading. Trudging through, slowly and quietly forgetting about and letting go of his quaint dreams of a happily ever after – firework harlequin Austen romance. Head over heels Harry had been fading away.  
But if the lush green fields and sunny market square of the rural little village of Dibley were anything to go by, he figured this was just the place to… well… blossom, really.

But first, the door.  
There were hushed voices coming from outside. As the door swung open he was greeted by two women.  
Two very different looking women, both with those goofy smiles women often wore around him but he could never quite figure out. One was tall and skinny, straw blonde hair and glasses with the most amazing (or horrendous? He couldn’t quite decide) pink anorak.  
The other…  
He found his voice, “Oh Hello!” and was met with a little feminine chorus of hellos.  
He’d better invite them in.

“Sorry it’s a bit of a mess, my last place was bigger so it’s going to be a squeeze fitting it all in”  
After he moved the chair, he turned to his guests all the while chattering away. Had he really been so starved of company in London?  
“If you see anything you like, just take it – I’ll never know”  
“Really?” the blonde sounded how she looked. Squeaky and bright.  
“No not really!” Her companion sounded long-suffering. He could see her better in the light now and oh she was glorious. Dark haired and dark eyed; a gleeful brightness to them.

“Oh I’m Harry. Sorry. All over the shop today.” That’s it Harry just keep on wittering.   
“I’m Geraldine, I just live down the lane.” She smiled wider and he lost his breath a little. “Excellent.”  
“And I’m Alice.” He tore his eyes away from Geraldine’s face to shake her companion’s hand. “Splendid.”  
Stop staring. Stoppit.

So they chatted a little. Harry trying to seem at least vaguely interesting (just don’t tell them you’re an accountant) all the while with a strange sensation stirring in the pit of his stomach as he listened to Geraldine talk and humour Alice.   
“It’s a sort of modern mystery thriller. You see someone and we don’t know who – has done a poo on the head of the little mole.”  
He’d then asked Geraldine about her favourite books.  
“I love Jane Austen, “said Geraldine, eyes twinkling, “I think Sense and Sensibility is my favourite. Well,” she continued and he moved in a little closer, watching her face light up, that fluttering feeling only getting stronger, ”any of the one’s where the girl gets swept off her feet by a handsome stranger after a couple of juicy fist fights and a terrible misunderstanding.”   
She giggled a little and there it was. That feeling in his gut that he’d missed for god knew how many years. Like a punch in the face, a wave of warmth and light and Shakespeare hit him as this tiny, chubby woman smiled up at him.   
“That ever happen to you round here?” He asked, a little too gruffly, “any handsome strangers sweep you off your feet?”  
“No not yet.”  
“Well…there you go…”  
He had to shake his head to regain his train of thoughts. Stop staring you absolute muppet.  
But oh, oh it was far too late and he could just see the Grand Romantic Gestures come unbidden to his mind. Don’t be stupid Harry. Don’t do this to yourself again. But her voice was like honey and so full of benevolence. And then she gave him a look so sweet, or looked so horrified for having called him a “townie bastard” (oh good, so he was making friends already then) that he had to stifle a laugh. Stifle and push down that burning feeling of the fireworks going off in his heart, as his head internally sighed and reigned itself to the inevitable. 

After they’d both finished calling him a bastard and left, he wandered rather aimlessly back into his semi-unpacked kitchen and leaned across the sink, staring out of the window into the darkness. He could see the church from there, towering about the now silent little village. He’d left London to truly live. To get what he’d always wanted. His freshly dumped 13 year old self grinned back at him from the dark glass. Head over heels Harry, back again.  
“Bugger.”  
Now where was that bloody kettle?

***  
In the years that followed, Harry would forever fondly recall what he had later realised was the exact moment he had fallen in love with his wife. She had looked at him with embarrassment and laughter in her eyes and said with the tilt of her head,  
“It’s about a poo.”


	3. Dog Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I've added another little bit to this.... I may do the whole thing... I dont know. My writing is is based on flashes of inspiration, so is a bit patchy and sporadic. Also this one is really long compared to the others....
> 
> Harry heads off into the village.....

“So how is Dibley?” came the singsong voice of his twin from his mobile. Harry paused for a moment in order to find the right words for his new home.   
Dibley was… Dibley is…. Different. Charming? Quaint? A slightly disneyfied version of Rosyston Vasey?  
“So is it like the village from the Wicker Man or more Emmerdale?”, she continued. He let out a soft laugh, “Dibley is gorgeous, and the people are… eccentric… but nice.”  
“Eccentric?”  
“To put it lightly.”  
“Sounds fabulous.”  And it was, really. He liked it. Despite the fact he’d almost been run over by a scruffy looking farmer on a tractor, gotten the strangest directions from an elderly gentleman with a verbal tic and spotted a sheep happily sat by the side of the road with double yellow lines painted on it.

It was a paradox. Quiet and sleepy but so very full of colour and life in a way London had never been. London was an art installation made of neon and chrome. Dibley was a watercolour of daffodils with a border made of glittered fusilli.  
  
Harry meandered around the village. Procrastinating to a certain degree. Head in the clouds (as they were almost permanently – thanks not only to his imagination but to his height), he stepped into the local shop. With the hum of the radio playing softly in the background, his attention was quickly caught by the sweets in jars that lined the walls behind the till. Sweets he didn’t even know were still made, and a few he’d never heard of before.   
“Bloody hell, cola cubes…”  
  
“The usual, Geraldine?” If he were a dog, Harry suspected, his ears would have pricked up to the sound of that name.  
“Yes please, Mrs. Bloom, but we need double the Curly Wurly’s.”  
Harry looked over to where a small girl was holding out a backpack for the shopkeeper, who was filling it with a ridiculous amount of chocolate bars. Beside the girl, was an even smaller version dressed in exactly the same school uniform – the bright blue of the private Girl’s Grammar just out towards the local town. Both girls were blonde and scrawny and made Harry think of baby birds. Baby birds with carrot jewellery and (on the smaller girl) a Dinosaur shaped hat.   
“That’ll be £25 me dear.”  
“Can you put it on Aunty Vicar’s tab please?” the elder girl squeaked.  
“Right you are my lovelies,” the shopkeeper cooed, and upon spotting Harry asked, “you alright there, dear?”  
He blinked rapidly and picked up a packet of mints, “oh, um, sorry…”  
The two girls were looking at him with bright blue and brown eyes. Geraldine passed a curly wurly to her little sister and grinned at the handsome stranger.  
“You must be the new person at Sleepy Cottage.”  
“How do you know that, Gerry?” said the little one in hushed tones.  
“Because mummy said he was pretty man with a big nose, Luna.”  
“His nose isn’t that big.”  
“It’s massiv----“  
Blushing furiously, Harry interceded, telling them that he was in fact, the new owner of Sleepy Cottage.   
“…I’m Harry Kennedy.”  
They _bowed,_ and announced themselves to be Geraldine and Luna Horton. Harry then promptly remembered the eccentric blonde woman who had come to his door the other night. With _her.  
_ A shiver ran down his spine as he thought briefly of dark dark hair and a bright smile.  
Luna scrunched up her little face and turned to her sister, seeking her insurmountable wisdom. “So if new people have moved in, does that mean they found where the last body part was hidden?”  
  
About 10 minutes later after one of the strangest conversations of his life, Harry Kennedy was walking rather quickly in the opposite direction of the village shop; lest he bump into any more of the Horton brood (he’d been informed by Geraldine that there were nine of them…out there…somewhere). And now he rather worried about finding a severed hand if he decided to pull the carpet up, but the shopkeeper had told him not to worry and that the previous owner had probably died of natural causes. Breathe, Harry, you do not live in a murder house.  
But if you do, piped up his unconscious, you can ask their Aunty Vicar to exorcise it.  
  
A woman vicar, eh? So it wasn’t quite the 1940’s here then. Slightly more progressive than he had given Dibley credit for.   
He checked his watch, and heaved out a sigh. He needed to get those figures finished off today. He had spent far too much time already this week doing bugger all. Daydreaming. Wondering whether he should try and locate the other Geraldine (the very grownup Geraldine. Who he assumed did not have a “questionable fruit" collection like the little girl _he’d practically run away from_ ), and what on earth he would say to her when he did.  
  
The universe, however, is contrived in its coincidences.  
Because there she was, just a little further down the path, caught up in her own little world. Harry paused for a second, ready to scarper either after her or in the complete opposite direction. Depending on the feeling in the depths of his stomach, bees replacing butterflies. This wouldn’t be his first time trying to get to know someone new.   
It was, however, his first time getting to know someone who affected him so profoundly after only one meeting. Since her visit he had picked up Sense and Sensibility again, then Northanger Abbey, and Birdsong and only found himself skimming. Finding himself distracted and lacking. Missing something that was taking form in the urge to write small notes and quotes on scraps of paper – that would end up in the bin, unread. Taking form in a restlessness he hadn’t felt in years. Taking form in the laughing voice of his 13 year old self telling him that he was an idiot for trying to ignore it – that nothing ventured was nothing gained – and that initial stab, that pang of attraction was worth looking into.  
  
Harry took a breath, before heading after her, “Here goes nothing.”  
  
“Hello!”  
“Oh hello”, came a cheery reply, ringing like bells. It struck him for a moment that he had no idea what he should say. “Just trying to get to grips with the village he said looking about him mind if I string along?

She flapped her arms a little, “No, you string along… you pring along you my dingalingalong – sorry - I’m talking absolute twaddle.”   
With a smile, Harry mused as he watched her blush,  that it didn’t matter if he didn’t have anything to say. He was fine with staying quiet if it would keep her talking.   
Hands in his pockets, he wandered alongside her. The September air had lost some of its chill.  
Harry started again, “I heard through the grapevine we have a women vicar?”  
“YES yes we do yeah.”  
 _A definite note of enthusiasm there_ , thought Harry as he pressed the question. “How is that - is she popular?”  
Geraldine positively lit up as she looked up at him, “Massively. Round these parts she’s known as wonder woman and that’s by people who don’t like her!” she laughed.  
“Yeah? I’m actually rather pro women vicars myself…” he smiled back at her as she grinned. He had hit on a good topic apparently. “Something quite sexy about that white collar thing.”  
 _Oh hang on, was that too much?_  
“Really?”   
_Yeah, you should probably change the subject._  
“Probably a bit like nurses.Something about that uniform I can’t resist.”  
 _Really?_ She way either shy or creeped out now. Smooth, Harry. Smooth.  
Harry kept on talking despite his brain flailing its arms and shouting ABORT ABORT, “Stark crisp exterior with the promise of softness beneath?” Oh gosh he was rather breathy now.   
“Ooookay,” she chuckled, her honey smile had not faded, and could only be wider. “Not sure about the moral position there. Don’t really think we should have the parishioners thinking about knobbing the vicar.”  
  
He laughed “Ha, no. Fair point… And she’s probably a nice lady with white hair and smells of lavender.” It was his turn to blush a little. Did she mumble something? Ask he looked about, he realised that she probably had somewhere to be. Maybe he was keeping her…  
Ah what a time to lose your nerve.

“Actually I’m gonna go this way I promised myself I’d head up the hill today. So I’ll see you around.”  
 _Coward._  
Geraldine paused as he did, nodding as he made his excuses.

 _Bugger. I am a coward, aren’t I?  
_ A second passed like an hour and a dark haired 13 year old in his mind’s eye scowled at him and threw up his arms in defeat.” _Fine!”_ said the teenager, “ _Give up then. You might as well go and start buying tortoises or something now. Get 30 of them, take them for walks, die alone in your murder house surrounded by lettuce!”  
_ Harry, despite being rather bemused by his brain’s sudden infatuation with tortoises, scowled to himself and took a deep breath. No, he could do this. Harry you like her, you really do. You can feel it in your gut, in your bones; that she is… important. So very, very… vital to your happiness. __  
He doubled back.

“Sorry.” He caught her attention back and his heart beat double time when she gave it instantly, “Sorry to be cheeky…”

A few minutes later as Harry wandered home, arguing with a colleague over the work he was supposed to be doing at that moment; he looked back at Geraldine with a smile, immensely excited about seeing her again. Listen to her talk again.   
He checked his watch.  
Only 9 hours to get his work finished.  
And check the loft for severed limbs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have headcanon-named Alice and Hugo’s Brood: Geraldine (the oldest), David (after grandpa), Doctor (as portrayed by the actor david tenant) , Luna (HP), Phoebe (Friends), Leticia (after Leticia cropley), Ripley (get away from her you bitch), Tarka (that bloody otter) Boromir (as portrayed by actor sean bean) and Rosie (Rosie and Jim, Rosie and Jim, bobbing along on the Old Rag Doll).
> 
> They're not 100% yet and I'm sure you guys can do better. If you have any ideas throw them to me....


	4. One last look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I surprise myself every time I write another chapter. Help me I cant stop.  
> Send help.  
> Save me Sean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first date. and vicars are dirty liars.

 

Harry leant against the bar waiting for Geraldine. He had been a little overexcited and had turned up at about 20 minutes too early; now having to hover around the bar and read the bottles trying not to look awkward or leave sweat patches on his shirt. Not that he was nervous or anything.  Nope. Not at all. Sshh.  
He noticed himself in the mirrored wall behind a bottle of Sailor Jerry’s and checked for stray eyebrow, or 6 hour old sauce on his chin or anything  else that would scare her away within the first 5 minutes of their ‘dinner-for-sane-people-which-may-or-may-not-be-a-date’. But nothing. He was vaguely presentable. Massive nose and all.  
  
It had been a while since he’d done anything like this. What if he just made an arse of himself? What if he started making jokes about how shit Conservative MP’s were and it turned out she was the local Tory Counsellor?  Maybe avoid jobs then.  And politics. And religion. Avoid the heavy stuff. First date rules must be adhered to.  
  
Oh god what if she doesn’t like dogs?

3 minutes past 8 and there she was. Practically floating through the door of the bar, Gaussian blurred and orchestra playing in his head. He made a little noise in the back of his throat and stood straighter, hoping she’d notice him. It took two awkward little waves to grab her attention as she scanned the room, but she flashed him a huge grin and suddenly his nervousness was no-where to be seen.

* * *

  
  
They had eventually migrated away from the bar, and were now sat opposite to each other trying to figure out the menu. Everything had garlic in it. On it. Under it. Within it.  
Harry had about a hundred small stupid thoughts running through his head as he looked up towards her, when all he really wanted to do was say:

“You’re looking lovely.”

Geraldine gave an assured little smile as she took the glass of wine he had poured, “Thanks, came straight from work.”   
  
Harry had spent an hour and a half trying to pick a shirt, ironing it, finding there was a stain on it and then repeating the process. Twice.

“So what is it you do?” he continued.  _Oh how original_ came his inner monologue. Still, oddly enough, sporting the voice of his 13 year old self.

“Oh well I was about to say…”

“No sorry, “said Harry, shaking his head apologetically, “terrible question. I must get to know you first before I find out what you do. Imagine for instance, if someone was to say they were an accountant, you’re immediately going to think less of them and I bet there are some very gripping accountants.”   
_Ah._ Said the young voice in his head. Self-depreciating humour. _Very sexy. Very British._  
  
She nodded seriously, “Well yes, I once met an accountant that was 50 times more interesting than any other accountant I’ve ever met.”   
  
“What was he like?”

“He was very dull indeed.” Geraldine gave a soft laugh, warm like summer rain and suddenly Harry wasn’t all that hungry anymore. Not when his stomach was doing flips.

When she’d asked him how much time he’d be spending in the village, and he’d replied with “I‘m a bit of a weekender in reverse…” he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of worry or something similar behind her eyes. Like she was…apprehensive… about something…

“So you won’t be here to hear our vicar’s sermons?”  Oh, the Vicar thing again.

“Afraid not, no.” He wasn’t particularly keen on Church to be honest. His Primary school had been a Roman Catholic one and yes some of the hymns were quite catchy, but the whole Genesis, genocide, lions and virgins thing hadn’t really been his cup of tea.   
“Shame.”  
Must be Geraldine’s though, he pondered, maybe she was one of those born again Christians, she didn’t really seem to be the type… but hell, what did he know? He was relying on stereotypes here; dour and preachy and if the clichéd Church of England had a colour, it would undoubtedly be that off-white colour you painted your bathroom when you were selling your house. Geraldine was far from it, by what he could tell. Loud and rambunctious and a blazing scarlet red.   
Nahhh. Geraldine probably just took her parents to Church for the services.   
Not that he would mind if she were particularly religious, really. Had he ever dated anyone who was?--- ah. Yeah. Jude. _That had been interesting._

“Actually I went out on a date about 100 years ago with someone who was training to be a vicar.” His 13 year old self seemed to wake up at this statement, and was pulling a disgruntled face at the lanky man sat at the table. _Why are we telling her this harry what point will this serve._

“Really funny you should say that.” Harry didn’t even register the blush spreading across her face as he recounted his somewhat disastrous date with Jude. Trainee Vicar extraordinaire, now married to a mate of Harry’s, both currently off on a Red Cross mission halfway around the world.  _Because that’s just what she’d want to hear, eh Harry? About a previous date.  What happened to the first date rules of decorum, Harry?_

“I just couldn’t get past the dog collar.” _Oh this is the point you’re making. That you have verbal diahorrea when you’re nervous. Excellent. Well done. A*._ “I kept thinking. No. God’s watching and he’s bigger than me. Really put me off.” Oh god he was just wittering now. _That’s right harry. Just keep talking._  
  
“Rigggght.” Her blush got a little darker.  
  
“So anyway.” He said, sitting forward for the change of subject. “I reckon you’re a teacher.”

“Well I suppose I am.” Harry grinned wide and raised his eyebrows, more than a little surprised that he had guessed correctly.

“Yeah?!” he replied with a sweet kind of boyish excitement, lighting up his face, “What kind of students?”

“Special needs.”  
  
A middle-aged man appeared around the corner, a large smile plastered across his face. As soon as Geraldine spotted him he could see that they must know each other very well; the affectionate, yet long-suffering warmth that he had seen in her when she had been with her friend Alice emanated from her as she introduced this new gentleman to Harry.   
“Ah! Hugo! Hugo Harry Hugo Harry.” She announced somewhat rapidly.  
  
“Hi there. Nice tie.” And it was. Really. Sort of. In an ironic way, like Christmas jumpers and those weird earmuff-hat-headband things.  
Should I have worn a tie? Or am I overthinking this? _You are overthinking this_. Thank you brain.  
  
Hugo did a little upper body wiggle that Harry’s wealthier clients were prone to doing when they talked. Though the tweed jacket and the harmlessly dim air about the man told Harry that he was probably a local landowner or something along those lines. Black Labrador, Land Rover, shopped at Boothes or Waitrose all year round (not just at Christmas). Seemed pleasant enough. “So what do you think of our vicar?”  
“I’m afraid I haven’t gotten to know her yet.”  this vicar again, he was going to have to meet her soon. Everybody seems a bit obsessed with her. Like she was the lead in the sitcom that was Dibley. Or something.   
  
“She is indeed a mystery to us all.”  
At this Geraldine took the opportunity to shoo her friend away “What a shame you have to go away now right away goodbye.”  
And of course, rather like an affectionate but dumb pet spaniel, Hugo pottered off in the other direction with a smile and a little wave.

Harry grinned at his date, “This vicar is clearly quite something everyone in the village seems to be obsessed with her.”  
He was teetering on the brink of concluding that Dibley’s Vicar was the head of a cult, like Lord Somerledd in the Wicker Man. He’d heard from another resident that they had a Spring Fair every year. _Oh fantastic_ , thought Harry, _now I’ve creeped myself out._ His date suddenly seemed intensely preoccupied with staring at the bread rolls.  
  
She seemed to wilt a little, awkward, “I wouldn’t say that, I know her very well and actually she’s got massive faults…”  
Like promising the villagers the Harvest would return.  


“Oh well, haven’t we all?” he said rather nonchalantly, as if that would make her eventual discovery of all of his ridiculous faults any less traumatic. Like how he talked through movies. Or how he would get his sister’s opinion on literally everything. Or how much of a lightweight he was when it came to anything stronger than wine.

“Well I don’t know, I haven’t discovered any of yours yet…” Geraldine looked up at him through dark eyelashes and he blushed despite himself.

“Or I yours.” _Oh you smooth bastard._ What on earth could her flaws possibly be? I mean, thought Harry, she can’t be perfect..?  
  
A balding older gentleman appeared from around the corner and immediately caught Geraldine’s attention. She made as if to say something but the man beat her to it.   
  
“Ah Vicar! Excellent to see you Vicar. David Horton **.** Head of the Village council.”  He held out his hand and a rather bemused Harry took it. All the while never taking his eyes off the woman before him. David continued, hardly pausing for breath “I see you’re getting to know the vicar already. Just off for a wee. If you’ll excuse me vicar.”  
And with that he ambled off, leaving a beetroot faced Geraldine and a rather shell-shocked accountant.   
  
“On the subject of massive faults. As you can see, I’m a big fat liar.” She sounded more disappointed in herself than upset he’d found out, and pulled such a face of contrition and shame that Harry struggled to be annoyed that she’d failed to mention this important fact.

“I think a big fat liar-by-omission is perhaps more accurate? Or is there something else you’re not telling me? Are you a convicted felon? Did you murder the last inhabitants of Sleepy Cottage? Is David your husband?”

Harry couldn’t hide the massive grin that unfurled on his face. You absolute ridiculous person Geraldine.   
Absurd and beautiful and also a vicar.

“What? God no, not after Sean Bean warned me--- look, Harry, “ she bit her lip, almost tongue-tied, and ran her fingers through her hair, “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you – I suppose I did lie by omission really…please tell me you can forgive me?”  
  
Harry laughed softly and topped up her wine glass, “I can’t believe you let me witter on about lavender and dog collars and all sorts of bollocks.“  
  
She smiled up at him rather sheepishly, “So you forgive me then? I can stop talking about myself in third person while you make jokes about clergy-shagging?” His inner 13 year old threw up his arms in despair.  
“Oh dear god.”  
  
“Oh! Taking the Lord’s name in vain? That’s a penalty I’m afraid, very serious business – looks like dessert is on you.”

* * *

  
“So, Sean Bean eh?” Harry swallowed a mouthful of Eton Mess, a brief thought flitting through his mind concerning the frightening frequency of names of English desserts and sexual euphemisms.  
“Oh yeah, Sharpe helps me make all my important life choices. Told me to become a Vicar in the first place. Took off his shirt and I found God.”  
“That is a truly beautiful story.”  
“I think so, yes.” She smirked over a glass of wine, “And yes I have.”  
“What?” He wrinkled his brow at her, momentarily unsure.  
Geraldine spooned up another bite of chocolate cheesecake with a flourish, “Read the books.” She winked at him and everything suddenly felt very warm, he wanted to undo a button of his shirt without looking conspicuous and like an aroused cartoon character.   
  
They ate a little more of their desserts in comfortable quiet, until Harry (or more likely his his inner 13 year old) piped up with, “I met Sir Ian Mckellan once.”  
  
Had David or Hugo stayed in the pub, they might have passed the Vicar and her handsome stranger laughing, talking, stealing bites of one another’s desserts. They might have noticed the flushes on cheeks and the larger hand surreptitiously moving across the table to rest on top of the smaller, dainty but chubby-fingered hand before it. They might have noticed the start of something very, very wonderful.   
And ridiculous.  
   
“I’ve met Johnny Depp. And Kylie Minogue. Miniscule woman. Nearly sat on her.”

* * *

 

And then suddenly.  
Too soon. It was over, and he was stood at her door (barely, the lintel making him duck his head just a little) looking down at this rubenesque little beauty trying not to panic. Flub his words, trip on his goodnight and ruin a near perfect evening. Playing it cool was never part of Harry Kennedy’s repertoire.  
“Goodnight Vicar.” He beamed at her; she was suddenly quiet and shy again. Resigned? To what he wondered.  
 “Goodnight, potential member of the congregation.”  
“It was a lovely evening.” _Traditional Harry. Can’t go too far wrong there_.  
“I’d ask you in, but obviously I am a Vicar and this is our first date, therefore any lip-contact is out of the question.” There was a joke in her honey voice, as she looked up at him through thick eyelashes.  
He bit back a laugh, “Fair enough…. Goodnight, Geraldine.”  
“Goodnight Harry.”   
  
And the date was done – Harry turned and headed back down the garden path, odd emotions churning in his stomach. It had been a fantastic evening, and it had ended… nicely. Quietly. Too quietly.  
Without noticing what he’d done he found himself at her tiny vicarage door, knocking, and then facing the Vicar again.  
“I just wanted to say, again, that was a lovely evening…” _Harry, HARRY what are you doing Harry it was fine it was cool stop now_.   
Oh god, he had to hold on to the door frame to stop himself turning and running, or smacking himself in the forehead or both.  
“Aaand I was just after some clarification re: dates and kissing.”   
_What._  
“Ah right,” she looked so serious as she stood in the doorway as his heart beat 60 to the dozen. “Well, I would say first date definitely no. Second date… probably no? Third date… definitely _yes,”_ she gave him such a look that his legs turned to jelly, “with _tongues.”  
_ He did laugh this time, lost for words“Brilliant, right well.”   
Shame.   
If he couldn’t do that yet, he’d have to try a different approach - so instead he took her hand and kissed it. Smiled at her once more and left again.  
His inner monologue pulled an impressed face and nodded slowly to itself. _Damn. Smooth._  
  


Fuck it.   
She swung the door open this time; was she out of breath?   
He wasn’t going to lie to a Vicar.  
“No excuses this time – just wanted one last look.”  
And he did, one last look at those dark dark eyes full of happiness and care and so much goddamn love that he couldn’t bear it.   
  
For the third time, he left Geraldine at her front door, heading off into the night with a dazed smile on his sharp features. He heard her call out behind him “I never did ask you– what is it you do?”  
  
“I’m an accountant.”  
 _  
_It took him till he reached the end of the street for the crippling embarrassment of his vicar-shagging comments to come back to him and hit him full in his massive nosed face.  
Noo _ooo._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please still love me.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah.  
> He always came across as a hopeless old fashioned romantic to me. But thats what Geraldine deserved really.


End file.
